


Care And Feeding

by foolishgames



Series: Care and Feeding [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Animal Transformation, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:48:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolishgames/pseuds/foolishgames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cat tipped its head back and looked up.   “Sam, is that you?”  There was a moment, and then the cat nodded slowly, up and down.  A clear gesture. “Sam, you cut that out right now.  It’s not funny.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care And Feeding

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to livejournal November 2006

There was no flash of light, no sparkly effect, no slow, torturous morphing of man into feline. Just Sam one minute, next minute a heap of clothes, and in the middle of the heap, a little black cat sitting there looking puzzled, on the greasy floor of the abandoned warehouse.

Dean put his hands on his hips. “You’re kidding.” He looked down. The cat tipped its head back and looked up. “Sam, is that you?” There was a moment, and then the cat nodded slowly, up and down. A clear gesture. “Sam, you cut that out right now. It’s not funny.”

Sam tilted his head on one side and said nothing.

Dean sighed. “Great.”

 

Cat-Sam was curled up contentedly in the middle of one of the motel beds, blankets curled around him like a nest. He was resting his head on folded paws and watching Dean curiously as he paced back and forth, banging his head on a brick wall.

Or, y’know. Trying to call their father. Whatever.

“Anyway, I just thought you should know. That your son is a cat. I mean, I’m gonna fix it, but I could, I guess, use some help? He’s a cat, Dad. Poof. Just like that. No spells or amulets or anything. Um. Anyway. If you’re around, or if you know anything that might help, call me. Please.”

Shutting his phone and tossing it onto the unoccupied bed, Dean folded his arms and looked at Sam thoughtfully. Sam returned the gaze, radiating utter boredom.

“So, I guess I’m gonna have to go buy some cat food, Sammy?”

Sam’s expression shifted to one of disgust. The idea of it clearly revolted him, and Dean laughed. “Yeah, thought so. Anyway, I’m gonna have a shower and sleep, and then we’ll figure out this all tomorrow.” He waved a hand vaguely in the air between them. He wanted to make a joke involving the word ‘pussy.’ He really, really wanted to make that joke. But every time he tried, his brain shut down from the enormity of the fodder available to him.  
Sam put his head down on his paws and closed his eyes, a gesture which clearly said: you are boring, go away now.

Dean went.

 

Sam as a cat was surprisingly heavy. He was thin, sure, sleek and graceful in the way that only a cat can be, but he was still a large, muscled tomcat. And having a large muscled tomcat sitting on your chest restricts your breathing options somewhat.

Dean blinked sleep from his eyes. “Dude. It’s two in the morning. What?”

Sam looked down at him calmly, then leapt to the floor in an easy movement, causing Dean to yelp as one of the paws kicked off from his solar plexus. Sam loped over to the door of the motel room and sat down, looking from the knob, back to his brother.

Dean pushed himself up on his elbows and glared at the cat. “Oh, come on.”

Sam managed, with a mere twitch of his tail, to convey how patient he had been thus far, and how his patience was now running out, and that these claws are functional, buster, so get over here and let me out right the hell now or I will widdle in your bed.

Dean flung back the blankets and crawled out of bed. “Be quick, okay? It’s freaking cold.”

Sam streaked out the door as soon as it was open, disappearing around the corner of the building. Dean leaned against the doorframe and shivered to himself, waiting.

In less than five minutes, Sam came trotting back around the corner. He squeezed in through the narrow gap Dean had left, twined himself around his brother’s ankles for a moment, and then leapt up onto the bed.

Dean shut the door, double-checked the locks, and turned. “Oh, hell no,” he said firmly. “Sam, that is my bed. You are not getting your cat hairs and stinkyness all over the bed in which I am sleeping. You are sleeping on that bed.”

Sam gave him a pleading look.

“Sammy, puppy-dog eyes on a little kitty face? Don’t work.”

The pleading look continued, but Den was resolute. “I know what you are thinking, Sam. You are thinking, my brother Dean, he’s a good guy. He’ll cave eventually under the onslaught of your cuteness. And yeah, Sammy, you’re a cute kitty. But you are not sleeping in my bed, and you are mistaken in your belief that I will not pick you up by the scruff of the neck and move you myself. Because see, you’re little enough that I can do that now.”  
Sam looked disgruntled. He lay still in the middle of Dean’s rumpled bed for a moment longer, than stretched languorously and got up, every movement slow and leisurely. He was doing this because he wanted to, because hey, actually, this bed’s not all that comfortable, really, now I think about it, and this other bed over here would be much more suitable. He certainly wasn’t doing this because any kind of brutish thug had threatened to toss him by the scruff of the neck. Not at all.

It was amazing, really, what could be conveyed through the slow, reluctant movements of one cat.

 

Sam as a cat was a snuggler, which was new. He was also crap at taking instruction, which kind of wasn’t.

Dean woke to discover himself lying on his side with Sam snuggled up against his chest. On arm was thrown over the warm little body, and Sam’s cold, wet nose was pressed against the hollow of his throat.

“Sammy,” he said, only half-scolding. “You’re supposed to be sleeping in your own bed.”

Sam lifted his head and looked at Dean with an expression of half-lidded sleepy contentment. He shook his head firmly and snuggled back down with a little pleased rumbly noise.

He was very warm, and very soft against Dean’s ribs. His tail would occasionally twitch, and his whole frame seemed to expand and contract under Dean’s arm with his purring breaths.

“Bad kitty,” said Dean quietly, and cuddled him closer.

 

A week later, and all of Den’s searching and research and frustrated phone calls to every contact in Dad’s journal had failed to turn up a damn thing.

Dean sighed and snapped the journal shut, looking over to the bed, where Sam was watching him alertly. “Sorry, Sammy.”

Dean stood up and started to pace. “I just – there’s nothing, right? Empty warehouse, no signs of activity, completely dead on the EMF reader and no history of weird happenings. No witches or vaudun practitioners in the town or surrounds. Nothing to explain furry-Sam.” He flopped down on the bed by Sam, and the cat flowed onto his chest, curling up with his nose pressed into Dean’s shoulder. “This bites.”

Sam lifted his head from Dean’s shoulder, eyes crinkled up in amusement. “Mrow,” he said, which Dean took to mean something along the lines of “You’re telling me.”

Dean snorted and scratched behind his ears. “Yeah. Back atcha, buddy.”

 

The weirdest part was, it didn’t really seem to bother Sam. He lounged around and looked relaxed, or prowled the streets at night, or crawled all over Dean with a total disregard for his brother’s personal space and comfort. One day Dean caught him sitting on the dressing table, staring intently at his own reflection, apparently fascinated by his little kitty face.

“Doesn’t it freak you out, Sam?” he asked one day, sitting in the weak sunshine outside the local diner in some tiny town.

Sam looked at him and tilted his head on one side, looking like he was considering something. “Mrr.”

“Was that a yes or a no?”

Sam gave him amused-crinkly-kitty-face. “Mrrrr,” he said with more emphasis, and swished his tail.

Dean slumped down, elbows on the table, and stirred his coffee. “Really?”

Sam nodded.

 

It wasn’t like it didn’t have its advantages. One guy and a cat cost a lot less to feed and sleep than two full-grown men. Cat-Sam was less broody, less moody and more likely to purr happily and cuddle. Cat-Sam couldn’t argue when Dean made a decision, though he seemed to have no trouble communicating “My brother is an utter moron/a complete slut/totally useless” with a roll of his eyes and patient flick of his tail.

Cats, as they discovered, had an innate connection with the spirit world. On a hunt, Sam was more useful than an EMF meter and a pocketful of rock salt. The slightest trace of spirit activity would have his hackles up, and he’d be so jumpy he’d nearly scratch Dean’s eyes out if he made any sudden moves. Despite that, most spirits would be frozen in terror by the sight of this small black cat hissing at them, which saved Dean’s life twice in one week, much to his disgruntlement.

And of course, a guy with a cat on his shoulder or lap was very, very likely, Dean discovered, to attract to positive attention of a certain type of animal-loving girl, which annoyed Sam no end.

So yeah, while Sam being a cat sucked to no end (It took weeks for him to stop looking disgusted every time he had to wash himself with his own tongue, for starters) there were upsides.

 

Sam was lounging on the hood of the car lazily washing himself when Dean came out of the bar, tucking somebody else’s money into his pocket.

“If you’ve gotten cat-prints on the windshield again, you’re riding in the trunk,” Dean told him, holding out an arm, crooked at the elbow. Sam gave him an amused look and stepped daintily onto the proffered appendage, settling in the curve of his brother’s arm with a happy rumble.

He’d just pulled the keys from his pocket when the door of the bar opened behind him, spilling warm air and music and cigarette smoke briefly out into the cool night air before slamming shut again. Dean turned slowly – three guys he’d taken a fair bit of money from at the pool table that night, all of them glaring and cracking their knuckles.

“Great,” sighed Dean. “Fellas, what can I do for you?”

“You were cheating,” growled the one in the centre, and Dean privately dubbed him Baldy.

“Me?” said Dean, surprise and hurt written all over his face. “I never.”

“Did,” grunted one of the offsiders. Stretch, thought Dean. Guy was taller than Sam – when Sam was human – but skinny as all heck, like somebody had taken a normal person by the ankles and the hair and pulled.

“Mrowr,” said Sam, drawing his attention back to the present.

“Didn’t,” replied Dean, and resisted the urge to stick his tongue out. He crouched down carefully and slowly, never taking his eyes of the bullies in front of him, and let Sam uncurl himself onto the cracked pavement.

“Now, we don’t want any trouble,” said Baldy, in the face of all the evidence. “So if you’ll just give us back our money, we’ll be on our way.”

“I don’t have any of your money,” said Dean brightly. “I have my money, which I won off you fair and square.”

“Well, we want it back, smartass.”

Dean cocked his head, and gave a little grin. “Or what?” 

Sam, winding around his ankles, made a funny little sneezing sound and shook his head. My brother is an idiot.

People never factored the cat into their equations. When Sam was a six-foot-four lanky man, standing at Dean’s elbow and glowering from under his bangs, he was a threat, they’d take notice of him, be prepared for his attack. But a cat was just a cat, so when he leapt onto the hood of the car and launched himself with claws extended at eye level, it surprised them. It threw them off long enough.

Or, it had the three previous times they’d done this, Sam acting all kitty-ninja and Dean landing solid blows. It had worked, but this time –

The soft pained noise that Sam made as he hit the wall caused Dean’s stomach to drop into his boots. Sam fell to the ground, and Dean released the idiot he was punching and launched himself at the man drawing back his foot to kick the small, helpless body.

The next few minutes were a blur of bloody violence and anger, and when his three attackers were gone – unconscious or fled, it hardly matters – he sank to his knees beside Sam, tiny and helpless, limp as a rag doll and barely breathing on the filthy concrete.

 

The vet was optimistic. “Some cracked ribs,” he said. “He’ll be in pain for a few weeks, have difficulty walking. Try to stop him from moving too much, or lying on the side that’s injured. He’s gonna be okay.” Dean had nodded tightly, eyes grainy and sore from worry and lack of sleep, given his latest credit card to the girl at the desk, and taken Sam back to the motel.

He still made frightened, hurt noises whenever Dean touched him, whenever he was moved. He had barely opened his eyes when Dean lifted him, stiff with pain, onto the front seat of the Impala. He drove as smoothly and carefully as he knew how, but Sam still let out little noise with every corner, every gear change. He shook, claws digging into the sleeve of Dean’s leather jacket when Dean lifted him gently and carried him into the motel room, put him down on the sole bed.

“I’m gonna get you a basket,” he told Sam quietly. “I know you don’t like the idea, but it’ll make it easier. You can stay in there and stay still, and I can carry you that way without hurting you. Just till your ribs heal, okay?”

Sam lifted his head and looked at him, eyes radiating pain, then nodded slowly.

“I’m sorry, Sammy. I’m so sorry. I never meant for you to get hurt. It’s my fault.”

A shake of the head in the negative, sharp grumbling breath of pain at the movement.

“Should have protected you better. Supposed to take care of you.” Dean slumped down, sitting with his back to the bed, head hanging down till his forehead touched his drawn-up knees. “You could have died, Sam.”

Warm breath on his neck, cold nose, scratch of a sandpapery tongue. He twisted around. “You’re supposed to stay still, Sammy.” Sam nosed gently at his cheek and managed a purr for him. I’m okay. I’m not dead. Stop blaming yourself.

Dean nodded and stroked Sam’s ears, scratching gently when Sam butted at him. “I’m gonna take care of you, Sammy. Nobody’s gonna hurt you now, okay?”

Sam tipped his head, and even through his pain, the slight narrow of his eyes and tongue appearing at the corner of his mouth managed to transmit an amused Bitch, please, loud and clear.

Dean just snorted. “You want steak for breakfast, Sam?”

Sam considered thoughtfully, and nodded.

 

It was a week before Sam could drag himself further than a foot out of his basket without whimpering in pain, and another fortnight before Dean stopped carrying him everywhere. He still moved stiffly, with an occasional wince, but Dean stopped wanting to kick himself or choke back tears every time Sam moved, and started hunting again.

Almost a month after Sam got hurt, he found Dad. Or rather, Dad found them, flinging the door of their tiny motel room open and storming in with a booming, “Morning, boys!” just after dawn one day, out of the blue.

Dean was on his feet with a knife in hand before he was even fully awake, blinking sleepily and wondering vaguely if he was dreaming. “Dad?”

John Winchester smiled. “Hey, son. How is everything?”

Dean lowered the knife. “Um. Sam’s a cat, Dad.”

John blinked and looked around wildly, as if expecting his younger son to materialise out of thin air. “Sammy?”

“Mrowr?” A small black head appeared from rumpled blankets on the bed. Sam looked at his father for a long, slow moment, then transferred his gaze to Dean, who shrugged helplessly. Sam rolled his eyes. “Mrrrow,” he said with a distinctly disgruntled air, and vanished back into the warm little nest he’d made for himself, which Dean took to mean “Wake me when somebody interesting gets here.”

He looked at his father. “Um. Like I said. Didn’t you get my calls?”

His father – was he blushing? Dad was blushing, looking embarrassed. “I, uh, dropped my cell in the bath. I had to get a new one.” He cleared his throat and pulled himself together. “So, how exactly did this happen, and why haven’t you changed him back yet?”

Dean groaned and covered his eyes. This could take a while.

 

Three hours had passed. Coffee had been consumed. Sam had been coaxed out from under the covers by the promise of food and ear scratches.

The Winchester men and Winchester kitty were sitting at a picnic table in the small park in the centre of the small town and John was staring bug-eyed at Sam, who was sitting on the table cheerfully and competently devouring the contents of a can of tuna.

“So, you’re sure it’s him and not just a random cat?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yes, Dad, I’m sure. Sam?” Sam looked up. “You are Sam Winchester aren’t you?” Nod. “My baby brother?” Nose wrinkle, nod. “Geek-boy sidekick?” Playful swipe of claws and superior look. “What did you study at college? Psychology?” Headshake in the negative. “Medical science?” Vaguely amused look, headshake. “Pre-law?” Definite nod. “Your girlfriend, Alison…” Headshake. “Lori?” No. “Jessica.” Nod. “She was a brunette, right?” Shake, sad kitty-eyes. “Blonde?” Nod.  
Dean looked at his father. “Dad, it’s Sam. Swear to god it’s him, bad taste in music, annoyingly superior attitude, the whole thing. He’s a cat.”

Nod from Sam, who finished his tuna and climbed down into Dean lap, demanding to be petted. Dean absently stroked him, curling his fingers to scratch the sensitive spots behind the ears.

John frowned. “Weird.”

 

It turned out that John had no useful insight into the whole cat situation. It seemed to make him weirdly uncomfortable, actually, and on occasion Dean caught him staring at Sam with something like fear in his eyes.

They travelled together for a week, exorcised three spirits and a poltergeist, and said nothing of consequence to each other. Sam kept looking back and forth between them with this exasperated look, like “Man, if I could talk right now, the things I’d be saying.”

When he left, John said, “Call me if anything happens.” Dean smiled and nodded, and when he was gone, flopped back onto the bed and cradled Sam against his chest.

“Well, he was no help at all,” he grumbled, and Sam made a cute little face and shook his head. “Yeah, I know, you’ve been telling me that for ages.” A sneezing laugh from Sam, who rubbed his head against Dean’s hand, demanding scratches. Dean idly stroked Sam’s ears. “Got any preference for our next destination, Sammy, or do you just wanna get in the car and drive?” Sam blinked at him and crinkled his nose in the expression Dean had come to interpret as amusement. “Well, not you drive, obviously. I’d be driving. Beach, maybe? City? Middle-of-nowhere?”

Sam heaved a huge sigh and wriggled up Dean’s body to press his head under Dean’s chin, rubbing back and forth affectionately. Dean chuckled, drawing a small, pleased noise from the cat at the rumbling vibration. “Or do you not care as long as you get food and scratches?” Sam gave a whole body undulation that ended with him tucked underneath Dean’s arm. “And cuddles, you enormous girl.” Sam nodded, deeply satisfied.

Dean yawned. “Yeah, I can live with that.”

 

Sam was on him the minute he staggered through the motel room door, twining around his ankles and pawing at the hem of his jeans. Dean staggered, exhausted, and nearly tripped. “Sam, Sam, just a second. God. Let me sit down, okay? Just wait a minute.”

Sam backed off obediently, sitting upright and alert as Dean closed the door and stumbled to the bed. He slumped down, head in his hands and just sat.

Fucking Satanists. 

Fucking Satanists with their fucking rope and their stupid goddamned rituals. Their stupid cars to put him in and leave Sam a frantic mess, unable to follow, their stupid chair that they tied him to, their stupid ritual knives which bled him slowly, shallow cuts.

He’d gotten loose from the chair when they shifted their focus to an animal sacrifice. The cat had been a stray tabby, completely different from the sleek black tomcat that had been his companion these three months, but the sound of its pained screams had triggered some enraged protective instinct that had been more incentive than all the shallow harmless cuts on his own flesh.

The police had found the mutilated remains of at least six cats, and something that might have been human bones, in the cellar of the big house where they’d taken him.

His wrists hurt. Rope burns, and he thought he might have sprained one when he freed himself.

Sam’s cold nose touched his aching wrist, then the tentative touch of his rough tongue. It was soothing, and Dean sat and watched Sam slowly, methodically lick clean the bracelet of reddened, swollen flesh on his left arm. He felt slow, drugged stupid, exhausted. He wondered how Sam had spent the last twenty-four hours since he’d been missing. Sam would have had no way of knowing where he was, no way of knowing if he was alive, no way of asking for help or being of help. He must have been terrified.

He crawled into Dean’s lap and nudged at his other arm until Dean lifted it so Sam could clean that one too. He stroked Sam’s ears as he worked, comforted by the gesture, by the concern and affection in it.

When he had finished, Sam put his paws on Dean’s chest and lifted himself up to look his brother in the eye.

“Sorry, Sammy,” said Dean quietly. “You must have been pretty scared, huh?” Sam nodded sombrely, and gave a whole-body shiver. His tail lashed back and forth. Dean stroked at his ears, pulled the little body closer so he could bury his face in the soft fur of Sam’s shoulder. “They were killing cats,” he said, and felt Sam go rigid and still. “They had one down there. I could have killed them, Sammy.” Sam went boneless again in his embrace and twisted, snakelike, to nuzzle at his face, paws on either cheek. “I miss you, you stupid, floppy-haired jerk,” he whispered finally, and Sam licked gently at the tears running down his face. “I want you back. I want my brother back.”

Sam just nodded sadly.

 

Missouri bluntly said Sam would get over it.

“Look, honey. He knows what shape he’s supposed to be, and so does his body. Sooner or later, something’s gonna remind him, and he’ll snap back to how he used to be. Morphic resonance. Give it time.”

Dean scowled at his coffee. “Been three and a half months,” he said gloomily, and Missouri raised her eyebrows.

“Really? Well, there’s a thing. Come here, Sam.” She picked him up exactly that way he hated, by the shoulders, so that his hinds legs dangled. Sam squirmed. “Huh. Now that is interesting.”

Dean lifted his head. “What’s interesting?”

“This feels like – something else. Like he’s been forced to this shape for some reason.”

Dean blinked, as Missouri released Sam and he scuttled off to the corner to lick his ruffled fur flat. “Forced? How? By who?”

Missouri eyed him. “Messed with any fairies lately? The Unseelie? The other folk? Smells like them, right enough. He stinks of fairy dust.” Sam paused in his grooming to make a face at her.

Dean rubbed his head and tried to think. “There was that nursery creature, getting into kids’ dreams, luring them off to play with the pixies.”

“Did you kill it?” Missouri poured him another cup of coffee and sat down opposite him. He shook his head.

“Can’t really kill fairies, not properly. Just send ‘em back where they came from and seal the door behind them.” An idea was starting to form in his head, and Missouri nodded approvingly. “You think this is a curse, or something. An Unseelie curse.”

“Could be,” she encouraged. “They’re known for playing silly games.”

“Which means,” he continued, coming to his feet and starting to pace, “that there’s a – trigger of some sort, some kind of closure.”

Missouri pressed her lips together. “Maybe. They’d find it funny to just make him a cat forever, though, too.”

“No. No.” He won’t believe it, he can’t. “There’s always a way to end it. It’s rules.”

Missouri nodded. “Yeah, they stick to their rules, such as they are. But it won’t be easy. It won’t be pleasant. He might need to eat a medium-rare steak under a full moon on the last Tuesday of the year. It might be ended by him being at the North Pole. It might be ended by your death, Dean. It might never, ever happen. He might be stuck like this.” 

Dean shut his eyes tight, grinding the heels of his hands into them, exhaustion and despair weighing heavy. He felt Sam twine gently around his ankles, rubbing against him, offering what comfort he could. Dean almost laughed. Sam might be stuck as a cat for the rest of his life, and he was comforting Dean? He leaned down and picked his brother up, cuddling him close.

“Okay,” he said, even though it wasn’t. “Okay.”

 

They’d finished a hunt and burned the bones the previous day, so Dean let himself oversleep, lying facedown in his pillow and snoring contentedly until Sam jumped on his back, kneading gently with his paws.

“Mmphgl,” Dean said, and Sam gave a little sneezing laugh and crawled under Dean’s arm, demanding a cuddle. 

Dean shifted onto his side so he could stroke Sam’s ears without dislocating his own shoulder, pressing his face into the soft fur. “Morning,” he said. Sam gave a meow in greeting that changed halfway through into a happy purr that sounded like tearing paper as Dean found that spot behind his ears that never failed to turn him into a boneless, melted puddle of happy cat. Dean snickered. “You’re so easy, dude.”

Sam gave an ecstatic wriggle and didn’t bother answering; pressing his head up when it seemed like Dean might stop his rubbing. Dean rolled onto his back, pulling Sam onto his chest. It was a position that had become familiar to him recently – lying in bed, cradling Sam close and warm, Sam’s happy, content noises vibrating through his chest.

His missed his brother. But this was okay, this warmth spreading through his bones, this happy Sam. He could maybe get used to this. Maybe he was already too used to it. It felt comfortable.

Sam butted his head against Dean’s chin, and Dean realised he’d stopped stroking Sam, lost in thought. “Sorry,” he murmured, tousling Sam’s ears and dropping a gentle kiss between them. “I was just.” He stopped, because a hundred and fifty pounds had just landed on his chest.

“Holy shit,” said Sam, blinking hard. “Ow.”

Dean tried to think of something to say, tried to think of anything past Sammy, real and human, with his floppy hair and surprised face and his elbow digging into Dean’s stomach, but all he could come up with was, “A kiss? Are you fucking kidding me? It took a kiss to break the spell?”

Sam cracked up laughing.

 

“Oh God. It’s so good to be clean, finally.” Sam collapsed face-first onto the bed and sighed. There was a moment of apparent confusion as he tried to bend his legs backwards to curl up, and another when he stretched instead and kicked the nightstand, but finally he settled down and blew his damp hair out of his eyes. “I needed that.”

Dean looked him over carefully, searching for - something, he wasn’t sure what. Sam was a bit thinner, slightly clumsier and a great deal shaggier than he had been four months ago, but otherwise seemed unchanged and unharmed by his feline adventure.

“You need a haircut,” he blurted, suddenly uncomfortable.

Sam squinted at him, looking amused. “Really? I was thinking of maybe growing a ponytail.”

“Dad would love that.”

“Like I give a crap,” Sam murmured, and then looked surprised. “Well, shit. Looks like I’m gonna have to start censoring my internal dialogue again.”

Dean snickered. “This’ll be funny. You want tuna for lunch?”

“Christ, no. If I never see another fish again it will be too soon. I want – fruit. And a burger with fries and a coke. I’m starving.”

“Pants might be an idea, then.”

Sam looked down at himself, mournful. “I’m gonna miss running naked all over the place. It was very freeing.” He stood up, wobbled uncertainly and dug through his bag for a pair of jeans. “On the other hand – pockets.”

Dean watched, bemused, as Sam stood on one leg to pull on his pants, and promptly fell over. “Having trouble, little brother?”

Sam frowned. “It was easy being a cat. Balance and agility and dashing good looks come naturally to cats.” He blew his hair out of his eyes and sat up. Dean reached out and grabbed him by the wrist, pulled him upright to sit on the bed while he pulled on his pants.

“Looks like you’re going to have to get used to being clumsy and ugly again, bro.”

“Go choke on a kipper,” said Sam, like he couldn’t help it.

Dean choke on laughter instead. “A kipper? Seriously?”

Sam blushed. “Shut up.”

 

“Dean?” Sam was stretched out on one of the beds – they’d had to get a different motel room now that Sam was back to normal – when Dean came out of the shower.

“Mm?” Dean dug around in his duffle for some sweats to sleep in, dropping his towel without embarrassment and pulling them on.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was firmer this time, demanding attention. Dean turned.

“What?” Sam was sitting up now, looking serious. “What’s wrong, Sammy?”

Sam dropped his eyes and licked his lips, looking nervous. “I just – I just wanted to say thanks. For taking care of me.”

Dean flinched, turned away. “Yeah, sure.”

There was no warning, just Sam’s arms around Dean from behind, pulling him back against that warm, broad chest. “I mean it,” said Sam fiercely, holding Dean tightly even as he squirmed. “Thank you.” His breath warm on the back of Dean’s neck.

“Okay, Sam. You’re welcome. Let go, okay?”

“No,” said Sam stubbornly. “Quit squirming. You got to cuddle me all the time.”

“You were a cat, Sam. It’s different.” But he stilled his attempts to get loose, letting Sam hold him with a kind of gentle strength.

When Sam’s arms finally loosened he pulled away, trying not to seem to eager to get loose. “Jeez, Sam. You wanted a hug, you could have just asked.”

Sam tipped his head on one side, not looking in the slightest bit embarrassed. It looked like some of the eerie self-confidence and disdain for the rest of the world had transferred over from the cat. “I want a head scratch,” he demanded.

Dean threw the wet towel at him and went to bed.

When he felt the mattress dip under Sam’s weight, he wasn’t surprised, just held out one arm so that his brother could curl up, a warm weight against his ribs, head on Dean’s shoulder.

He wasn’t even surprised when that spot behind Sam’s ears still turned him into a quivering, happy puddle


End file.
